The decline and fall of Indiana Princess

I'm not allowed to hire freshmen. That was the general rule handed down to me by the administration when I started working at my college's library. "Too new," the registrar writes next to their names when I forward her my list of applicants at the beginning of every semester. "They don't yet have an academic record," was how it was explained to me.

Of course, there are never a ton of applicants for the minimum-wage positions I post, especially with class schedules being as chaotic as they've been this semester. Not to mention that my pile of applications gets vetted by two different administrators before I can even decide who to interview, most of the upperclassmen also crossed off the list for various unwritten offenses. Over the summer, I had exactly one applicant to choose from, and I could only hire him on the condition that he'd wear long sleeves all summer, because he might offend our president with his extensive arm tattoos.

This fall, I fought back. I had a small pool of applicants for the two open shifts, and I was determined to find one person who could fill both. For $7.50 an hour, it seemed ridiculous to hire someone to work 2-1/2 hours a week. And while the girl who could work Fridays was a dream come true, the guy who I'd have to hire for Wednesdays was an idiot.

But there was a freshman who could do both. And no run of the mill freshman. She was poised, she was confident. She was a former AP English student. She lived in student housing, just down the street, and was eager for extra shifts. She did great in her interview. I made an executive decision and hired her. She started during Week 5 of the semester.

Working in our library is not a tough job, but she caught on to everything right away--even the crazy Library of Congress classification system. She showed up early every day and took on extra shifts when Tattoo Boy had back surgery. True, she had an irritating habit of finishing my sentences. One of the freshman seminar instructors mentioned that she'd actually done the same thing in class. She referred to her as Indiana Princess, since she'd come to Chicago from central Indiana. Big-fish-in-a-small-pond syndrome, we figured--a bad grade or a tough teacher would bring her down to reality.

Week 9, she started to seem subdued. She had a cold. On Halloween she mentioned roommate troubles. There had been a disagreement, she and her roommates had ironed things out, but in the meantime her mom had taken it upon herself to call the school, and now no one in her apartment was speaking to her.

Week 10, on Wednesday, she sent me an email at 4 a.m. saying she was sick and wouldn't be in to work. She apologized profusely and offered to come in anyway if I couldn't get anyone else. On Friday she was back and somewhat cheerful, telling me about her trip that evening to visit her brother at Purdue. There was an open shift the following Monday evening and she snapped it up, saying she was always up for extra hours.

Week 11, on Tuesday, the Monday evening guy mentioned that no one had come in to relieve him. I figured she'd forgotten about it during her weekend away and resolved not to be too hard on her. I had a nice little speech planned for Wednesday--except that she didn't show up. I sat at my desk and fumed a little, but mostly I was concerned.

Her freshman seminar told me she hadn't been in class on Tuesday. She also mentioned that her class journal was full of entries about how she hated the city and her classes and missed home. I was trying to decide the best course of action on Thursday when I turned down the hallway and almost ran smack into her. "Oh, hi," she said coolly, and kept walking.

Then I was pissed. I sent her an email (having realized the day before that in my managerial wisdom I had never required them to provide me with a phone number) asking her to let me know if she was planning to come to work the next day. No reply.

Friday afternoon I hosted a librarians' group meeting that concluded with a tour of our school. As we paused to look at a display case, she approached me. "You're actually in front of my locker," she said.

Sputtering, I asked if she was coming in that afternoon. Yes, she said. She had been sick. I told her we'd talk later.

She arrived right on time for her shift. Still no real sign of remorse. "I was sick that day," she said. "I slept all day and when I woke up, it was like 3:00. I'm really sorry. It won't happen again." It would have been more convincing if her tone hadn't been completely flat and robotic.

It's Week 12 and we're all dragging. Thanksgiving break can't come fast enough. She showed up on time for both of her shifts, but listless, expressionless. She hasn't turned in her freshman comp research paper and she's one absence away from failing on attendance alone.

On my way out today I ran into the student housing coordinator, who told me that she's leaving school after the semester. That's no small thing, because she'll be responsible for next semester's rent unless she can find a student to take over her lease. But I get the impression that her family can afford it. Besides, what else could they do? If I were her parents, I wouldn't make her stay.

Seeing her decline this year has made me think about my own freshman year of college, how I missed being home and having friends, how I never quite connected with my roommate and failed my astronomy lab because I couldn't bring myself to go to roof of the physics building and complete the out-of-class observation assignment. But I was also no stranger to feeling a little out of place, to being used to my own company.

She told me she's flying home for Thanksgiving. I wonder if she'll come back for these final few weeks of classes. I remember my first Thanksgiving home and how eagerly my high school friends and I got together to share stories about our adventures apart. I wonder if she'll go to those parties, and what she'll say about her experiences. I can't even imagine what it's like to leave home in September an Indiana princess and return in November an empty-eyed Chicago freshman.

Oddly enough...

Today one of the lit. mag. staffers from last year approached me about starting a creative writing club. Apparently there was some internal strife among the staff and this student, at least, became disenchanted with the whole thing and decided it'd be more fun to have a writers group where people could get together and write and critique each others' stuff. When she mentioned the words "writing prompts" I had a little deja vu. Maybe she reads this blog...

I encouraged her to stick with the literary magazine, but I told her that yeah, I'd be willing to take on the writing group as well. Not sure if my boss will be as enthusiastic about me taking on yet another extracurricular activity (I also co-moderate the weekly book discussion group), but what the hell. I've been a little frustrated with my job and the limits that are placed on me by the total lack of resources and the general anti-academic bias that pervades the school--students, faculty, and administration alike. (The other day the gen. ed. department chair told my boss that her freshman comp students were having trouble getting resources for their research papers, and he said "[This institution] will never have an academic library." Not sure what they hired me for, then--oh, that's right: our accreditation requires it.)

So if I can't make a difference doing the job I was hired to do, maybe I can do it by making my job a little more fun. I've been trying to take the motto of my mentor-for-the-day to heart: It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission. We'll see how that goes.

Book recommendation of the day

I re-read Alan Bennett's The Uncommon Reader for a spur-of-the-moment detour by our faculty/staff/student book discussion group (we were completely demoralized by two months of Haruki Murakami's short stories) and was reminded of how completely awesome it is. (And short! It's a novella! With big type and wide margins!)

The premise is that Queen Elizabeth stumbles upon a bookmobile outside of the palace one day and falls in love with reading, to the point where she's blowing off her royal duties to get back to her book. Her family and staff feel threatened, her loyal subjects are confused (she keeps asking them what they're reading), and the Queen herself starts to wonder what else she's been missing out on. It's completely British and impossibly funny--and a little poignant too. (And short! Did I mention short?)

Glad we aren't the only ones who've noticed

But the blurbers and reviewers were so enthusiastic -- Mr. Toltz was compared to Mark Twain, John Irving, Martin Amis, Tom Robbins and even Charles Dickens. What more could I want?

A plot, compelling voices, believable characters and an editor with a machete for starters. There were a lot of funny moments and lines, and Mr. Toltz is obviously an exceptionally imaginative and witty guy, but where were his minders? Someone should have sat him down in an interrogation room and offered a plea bargain: Lose 100 pages or go to jail.

--Cynthia Crossen in the WSJ, not talking about JK Rowling but hitting the nail on the head nonetheless

Writer's apathy

Apparently the excitement generated by my travel writing class wasn't enough to get me writing on my own. I haven't done anything with the piece that I started that morning, and I've been stymied when it comes to posting anything here. It's that time of year again--the post-midterm wasteland. The students are stressed, the faculty is crabby, my student workers are flaking on me, and I kind of want to kill them all. M. Defarge has been working nonstop for about the last month on the proposal for his master's thesis project, and rather than being sympathetic I've been irritated with him too. It's terrible how other people's stress rubs off on me. They're not even my deadlines or final projects and yet I'm about as frantic as the people who actually have things due.

With three and a half weeks left, I've pretty much written off this semester (sorry; unintentional pun) and started thinking about January. One bright spot in the recent slog is that I'm going to be taking over as "faculty" advisor of the student literary magazine next semester. The English comp. instructor who started it last year is moving to London. While I'd rather take her place there, I figured the literary magazine might be a good second choice. We're having a pizza party the week after Thanksgiving to introduce me to the staff and begin the transition. (I feel like Barack Obama.)

I also volunteered for the newsletter committee for this state academic librarians organization that I belong to. So if nothing else, I'll write at least one thing soon--we're each responsible for 1-2 articles per issue (I think it comes out two or three times a year). I'm sure they'll be fascinating (compiling lists of promotions, etc.), but at least it's something.

Otherwise, I think I need writing prompts to get me going. Feel free to make suggestions!

Feminism's debt to Sarah Palin

I love this.

The first way Palin was good for feminism is that she helped us clarify what it isn't: Feminism doesn't mean voting for "the woman" just because she's female, and it doesn't mean confusing self-injury with empowerment, like the Ellen Jamesians in "The World According to Garp" (I'll vote for the forced-childbirth candidate, that'll show Howard Dean!). It isn't just feel-good, "you go, girl" appreciation of female moxie, which I cheerfully acknowledge Palin has by the gallon.

--Katha Politt

Stunned in a good way--finally

Two days later and I still am almost speechless. When NBC switched from local to national news at 10:00 on Tuesday, a static image of Obama with the words "44th President of the United States" superimposed over it filled the screen, and I honestly thought, "Oh, crap; someone's going to get in trouble for showing that early." It didn't occur to me that it was actually true until they showed the celebrating crowds in Grant Park. After the last two elections, I fully expected to wake up Wednesday morning without a clear winner.

Four years ago my mom gave me the usual crap about having kids and I told her, dead seriously, that I didn't think I wanted to bring any into the world given the current state of things. Today, again quite seriously, I feel like there's hope for the planet. I hope we're not burdening him with unrealistic expectations.

Given that (and given the fact that I too learned to read by watching The Electric Company), when I read this I felt like I couldn't have said it better.

Fingers crossed

I had intended that this would be the year I became more than a spectator in politics--way back last year I envisioned myself volunteering for the campaign. Apparently I'm as lazy about politics as I seem to be about everything else.

Tomorrow's rally is taking place literally steps from my office. Normally I work until 7:30, but I think we're closing early because of the anticipated crowd--something like a million people. My sense of history nags me to be there, even though I don't have a ticket and will have to congregate with the throngs in Grant Park. My sense of claustrophobia, as well as my love of sleep (I have to be back at said office at 7:30 Wednesday morning, regardless of whether the country's going to hell or not), however, make me think that I'll be spending tomorrow evening with Tom Brokaw instead.

Regardless, though, I don't think I'll get a bit of work done tomorrow. Even though we're probably closing early, I'm going to vote before work, because otherwise I'll be a wreck about it all day. I sat down with the ballot and the newspaper endorsements yesterday and stressed once again about the 70-odd judges who are up for retention and the cryptically worded (nonbinding) referenda my town is throwing on the ballot yet again. I agonized over the constitutional convention question.

Participatory democracy is going to give me an ulcer. But as always it bothers me much more that not everyone is doing the same level of agonizing.

On a positive note, my brother and sister-in-law are planning to vote tomorrow for the first time. Yes, they're 28 (this has been a bone of contention between us for the last decade). But better late than never, right? And I've been assured that they won't be canceling out my vote.